There are gaps in the particleboard;
quince wads fill the breaches.
Nicotine newspapers underlay the linoleum.
It's a rented place, he tiptoes
around its yellow layers.
He has a friend he visits on Sunday afternoons.
The walls of her bedsit are paper thin.
She thinks her neighbors scratch on them,
thinks they are writing to her.
She will stand in front of him naked,
eyes closed while she masturbates.
She wants him to watch her.
She's deathly frightened people will overhear.
Afterward, they sit side by side
on the small bed reading the tabloids.
Then they walk to a local pub,
sit quietly in a corner, not talking
holding hands until closing time.
One day her bedsit is empty,
she has gone, leaving no note.
On the other side of the city
he lands a job with a room in a hotel.
His new room is narrow, clean and white.
atop
a garden wall
striped marmalade throw
feline
lazy time
under sunshine
interlaced visions
a weaving
paws dangle in indolent ease
reach
underlay deep
whiskers sense sparrows
muscles tense in their plush
carpet shag
then
drowsy textile head slumps
sun-drying kitty-mat
basking
2 textured images twilled
to fade together forever
later
cat-rug carried away ~
sun settles in a deckchair
Cold fingers of mist draw ground ghosts
over churchyard graves.
It's a pretty scene and the underlay
of shallow bones
adds a musky flavone of finality
that seeps
from the green mounds.
A Pitbull on a leash
tugs at a pale hand
eager to dig and chew,
as if he knew.
He appears in a photograph of his life
there are no faces, nor anyone
who lived in a memory.
Images develop.
That long table was a smorgasbord
where he left only bones and crumbs.
There is a mirror on a transparent wall
behind it old men listen to lounge music
as they play cards.
The gamblers have his personal details
written on the same pocket notebooks
they keep score on.
Under the beer stained carpet
is an underlay of his history
he has seen the foot traffic come and go
his prints are everywhere.
He takes pictures, needing not to look at them
they were after all, all the same
just different venues, furnishings, landscapes.
Cigarette butts stuck into sand buckets,
line the walls of a diffuse composition
the place reeks of long nights
inside a nicotinic mind.
He photographs the cholinergic receptors
of his autonomic ganglia.
The exit is that way,
the door next to the empty fire extinguisher.
When he goes out
the fresh cold air burns all the negatives
in a Box Brownie.
Ocher and quince wads
pack gaps in particleboard walls.
Yellow newspapers underlay linoleum.
The apartment is smeared by nicotine
When it rains, a paper-Mache atlas of a blotched sky
can be read on the ceiling.
The window-sill slants, he dares not lean out.
He listens to street fights; imagines gore
seeping into inky basement wells.
Saturday nights bleed into Sunday. Sometime
amid the gray hours he decides to leave,
to wander vomit blitzed alleys
to search a doorstep and steal a Sunday paper,
then he returns to the grimy room
to read of better places
where better crimes get clean away.
He has a girlfriend, one he sees only once a week,
they sit on the narrow bed reading the news.
She tells him that her apartment has thin walls,
that at night strangers scratch upon them
as if writing to her.
Finally He lands a job in a hotel as a night porter.
His allotted room is pure white and sterile,
more a cell than a living space.
If he puts the light on, all that white hurts his eyes,
in time he gets used to it. His mind slowly
sheds layers of brick-dust and smudged print.
Please do not stress Mother dearest
As i do not want to add to your woes
But the dog has just come in covered
in ticks and fleas
And my sister and I have both knits and
scrapped knees respectively
So many troubles and this won't be the
last to try and comb over or sweep under
the already threadbare underlay or
cardboard box dinning table
Yet just more ammunition and stick's of
rock to be labeled and taunted by other's
with
Exactly just how much of laugh are you
having and enjoying at our expense
I've barely 23 cent's left after i've
settled my rent to patch up the
holes in the front door from the
bailiff's constantly knocking down
my door
But nevermind me what really strings
and breaks my heart are seeing my
children's faces bony and haunt
Like ghost's me do haunt knowing
hug's won't alone keep them warm
when the winter cold night's draw in
But those very kid's despite all of
this and apparently having nothing
are both happy and content at the
same time
Because 1 thing they know for sure
is that there are far worse fates than
being poor
So long as they know Mother loves
them
There is a part of me, an obscure mossy part
that is an underlay, a lichen-like carpeting
of scud and muddy surf that some might call earth.
Within that membranous sub-coat
neither devils nor angles live, yet there are creatures
they merge and mingle swapping their miniscule bodies
with each other just to scurry hither and thither
as different aspects of a microcosmic,
yet ever growing awareness.
I think sweet St Francis would have seen through me;
I believe he would have blessed my animalistic sub-existence
while teaching each germy, parasitical, symbiotic
cellular organism of mine how to knit together
the image of God in this filmy mire.
I sit rolled in a corner
Almost forgotten
Quietly ignored
Crimson velveteen tufts
Densely packed
Underlay visible
Obscuring the majesty
Only ever ceremoniously unfurled
When dignitaries visit
The streets I cover
Usually covered in dust
Dirty and dank
Freshly cleaned
To impress and fool
In the fetid air
The tang of fresh paint
Dingy corners spruced
The homeless ushered away
Children beautifully laundered
Flowers lavishly garlanded
Overflowing bins emptied
So when I am laid out
And smart soles
Tread on my blushing fibres
The illusion is complete
And with my presence
The bare truth hidden
Fleetingly…
Till they have gone
And I am rolled away
Then in my absence
The putrid decay
Of real life resumes
There is a part of me,
an obscure mossy part
that is an underlay,
a lichen-like carpeting
of scud and muddy surf
that some might call soul.
Within that membranous sub-coat
neither devils nor angles live
yet there are creatures
and they merge and mingle
swapping their miniscule bodies
with each other
just to scurry hither and thither
as different aspects
of a microcosmic awareness.
I think sweet St Francis would have
seen through me.
I believe he would have blessed
my animalistic sub-existence
while teaching each germy,
parasitical, symbiotic
cellular organism of mine
how to knit together
the shape of God
in this filmy mire,
this gathering swarm
of innate holiness.
There are gaps in the particleboard;
quince wads fill the breaches.
Nicotine newspapers underlay the linoleum.
It's a rented place, he tiptoes
around its yellow layers.
He has a friend he visits on Sunday afternoons.
The walls of her bedsit are paper thin.
She thinks her neighbors scratch on them;
thinks they are writing to her.
She will stand in front of him
naked, eyes closed while they both masturbate.
She wants him to watch her.
She's frightened people will overhear.
This is all the sex she needs; she tells him.
Afterward, they sit side by side
on the small bed reading the tabloids.
Then they walk to a local pub,
sit quietly in a corner, not talking,
holding hands until closing time.
She becomes a missing person.
He scans headlines, obituary columns,
classified ads.
Her parents live in Surrey,
that's all he knows.
On the other side of the city,
he lands a job with a room in a hotel.
He stops looking for her.
His new room is narrow, clean and white.
He stops smoking;
remembers the silence
once shared.
Quince wads pack gaps in particleboard.
Yellow newspapers underlay linoleum.
The apartment is a nicotine
an atlas of a blotched sky
can be read on the ceiling.
He has a friend that he visits once a week;
she will stand in front of him to masturbate.
Her apartment walls are paper thin. She tells him
that at night her neighbors scratch on them;
she thinks they are writing to her.
Later they go out to a small pub,
sit quietly in a corner
holding hands until closing time.
One day she is not there.
He scans the headlines, obituary columns,
the classified ads --- there is no news.
Weeks pass. Her parents live in Surrey,
he can't find them in the phone book.
He stops looking for the lost.
IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE : Part XXXIII
IF you pull a long non-plussed face
Astrophysicists declare Science no Absolute Truths underlay
Big-Crunch might on Big-Bang back bounce about face
Who'll say All-This's but mere hearsay
If you pull a long heretical face
Opt for accidentally ordered Life as did Hawking portray
Almighty be a Barrau's " tout comme " Lord of Multiverse
Who'll say All-This's but mere hearsay
If you pull a long Question-Marked face
Two brothers in '43 jumped into the Future to aver
Great Lakes all make for one big sea surface
Who'll say All-This's but mere hearsay
If you pull a long besotted face
Long walls of Black Holes tugging pulling us in disarray
Andromeda throttle surge through our Milky Way interlace
Who'll say All-This's but mere hearsay
So if you must pull a long-lost inane face
Light-propelled ET-ships visit us NASA-men say
If you can the future tell e'en of one of the human race
Then nothing anyone can ever do the FUTURE gainsay
© T. Wignesan - Paris, February 14, 2019
A box a ribbon a card
A dozen white carnations
Attractive underlay for
Twelve sweetheart roses
Soft silky red petals
Delicate tiny buds
On the card not a word
Only an initial
She closed her eyes
Handwriting she recognized
Feelings unexpressed
Lingering embrace
AP: 3rd place 2022
Submitted on October 3, 2017 for contest ROSES AND CARNATIONS sponsored by JULIE LEIGH RODEHEAVER - RANKED 4TH
Lost Value
The sun coughed
a blob of mucus flew out
landed on a mountain top
set it afire,
and for miles, total devastation.
Rain cooled the mountain,
shrouded it in steam,
when the mist cleared
a sparkling diamond of a mountain.
Overnight the price of gems fell
valueless now.
No good for anything other
than as underlay for motorways
and garden paths.
1234 CLUCK. Decisive time for sea monsters on a cruise to seventh bay. No ... NO..... towering underlay on carpets. It might sink the cabbage leaf, and pickles cant float in water so you cannot ski in a pan.
Take care in harbours as jester fish can pull with several hands. It is wise to be aware of globs of mucus omiting from tall buildings containiing dark energies.
Oh how wonderful to taste the tempting laughing soup.
It takes great effort to boIL, a small egg.
And would you bathE in bean? IF so look out for curd and plankton. Dive to the nine quarters of the tramping water to alleviate mind mould and re ignite the forces of a rested snail
ALIVE.ALIGHT.AWAKE.ADVENTURE.ANEW.ABODE.ABIDE.ANIMAL.AMEN
Related Poems